A/N: Here it is! My third chapter! More pointless Harry angst, but this time there's Dumbledore, too. Review! I can never have too many reviews!! By the way, I don't own any of it. Too bad, too...



Dumbledore comes to see me, on what is possible my second day at Hogwarts. My second day, or my second hour- time runs together, while reality entwines with illusion, past with present, death with life. He, thankfully, looks the same as he always has- same hair, same face, same dancing blue eyes over those those stupid half-moon glasses. The only difference I can spot is that he looks a bit older- have I spent years in this stupid room? Or maybe years with Him...

He doesn't say anything, just stands in front of my perfectly sanitary hospital bed and smiles. I try to smile back, but suspect it comes out more like the pained grimace of a caged, feral, animal. I am uncomfortably aware of my bandages, my wounds. He doesn't move, just smiles, and I wonder if he's ever going to speak, or if he is merely a statue, a pained imagination, or a half-forgotten memory.

I'm sorry, I rasp out, not meeting that striking gaze. And I am- sorry for getting caught, sorry for laying here, broken and wrecked. Sorry for not being what he needs me to be. Sorry for too many things to count, and I as stare at the wall, I'm hit by the swirling memories. How many times have I been in this position? A sacrifice to the Greatest wizard alive- save perhaps Voldemort. And the second would use me far more cruelly.

You've nothing to be sorry for. That's it, then. He doesn't accept it. He doesn't even understand. I'm still trembling, bloody fingers grasping the blanket until I'm sure I've popped open my scabs, fingers still shaking and jerking in the memory of pain. Indeed, it is I who should apologize. We should have gotten there sooner. Damn right, you should have! I want to scream. But logically, I know that I could have been there for days and never noticed. It doesn't matter how long they took.

You got there, and I'm thankful. And there, I've absolved him, and doesn't he look the better for it? His eyes are a little brighter, a little livelier, his smile a bit happier. The lines in his cheeks are visibly diminished, and for a second I'm not sure if he's real or imagined.

Well, my boy, I'm still sorry, He tells me. And I wonder at that- his boy. If I'm his, that what is he? My Lord and Master, a kinder and less painful master than the shade of Tom Riddle, perhaps, but with the same expectation for deference. I'm his boy, his sacrifice, his savior. And he wants so much- too much- and even though he loves me, which I'm pretty sure he does, there's only so much he has the right to ask for. And no amount of apologies will ever absolve him of his sins, but if he saves us it won't matter.

And at the simple words of apology, a thousand little memories come flooding down across me. The hasty excuses of jostling students in the hallways, Trelawney's breathy moans of distress. The loud, passionate, Oh, Harry, I'm sorry! That Hermione gave me more times than I could count. I see Ron's bashful face, freckled and wide-eyed, hear his sincere, Sorry, Mate, For a thousand small crimes. The remembrance of too many pasts, and I lose myself for a moment, or longer, but pull out far sooner that I ought to have. There weren't nearly enough apologies to right the wrongs that have been slammed at me.

I don't know how long that took me, but when I return to the present- I assume it's the present- Dumbledore is sitting in a comfortable chair beside me. Much as I loathe him, I love him even more, and the companionship is welcome. I apology reflexively, and he just smiles.

Quite all right. You appeared to go somewhere else for a moment, so I thought I'd better wait around. I'm blushing- I can feel the blood rushing to my bandaged and ruined face, and I bare my teeth at the Headmaster in a rough semblance of good cheer. We've all been very worried. I don't bother to ask who he means, because I know that the whole world will have been anxious, for a million different reasons. My friends because they care- or I like to think they do. The Order because I'm their weapon, and they need me. The ordinary people because I'm the Hero, the Golden Boy. And the Death Eaters because when I die, it's going to be short, sweet, and public, designed to bring glory to their master.

I'm sorry, I say again, and he doesn't bother to correct me. How long- How long since I woke, how long was I asleep? How long since the capture? How long have you been waiting? How long did He have me? I want to ask all these and more, but my throat closes and I choke slightly. He hears, though. He understands this at least.

You were only out for a few minutes, He says, referring to my break to the past. Other than that, you've been here for a week- and four of days you spent asleep. His eyes lock on me, and I shiver slightly in foreboding, although it's unnoticeable against my body's spasms. Voldemort had you for 3 days, Harry. That doesn't seem possible- four hours, tops. But he's not lying, and I know that I somehow lost my mind, and I wonder if I've found it yet.

Not my most intelligent response, but I couldn't think what else to say. And I was hurting, though I did my best to hide it, gritting my teeth sharply and catching my inner lip between my teeth. The stinging pain was enough to hold back tears of despair and the all encompassing ache of the rest of my body. Ron and Hermione? Reflex question- I can't think what would have happened to them.

Worried. They're at Headquarters for the moment, but both wish to see you. They're fine, He added, catching a question in my bespectacled eyes. I haven't been able to remove them, even in sleep, and don't dare call Madame Pomfrey. It's better to sleep in them, then try to remove them with my own uncontrollable limbs, or call for the fussy nurse.

I don't say anything else, merely close my eyes against the unspoken thoughts, plots, and questions in Dumbledore's. I am in no mood to deal with it- with any of it. They placed the heaviest load on my narrow, and still-growing shoulders, and more word will break my back. I can't do it, not any of it, not like this. Not like this... Not convulsing in a hospital bed, helpless and covered in bandages, fighting back tears. Not like this....

He knows this, and I am once more thankful for Albus Dumbledore's intuitive understanding. He doesn't leave, but stays at my side, removing my glasses and folding them neatly on the table beside me. I roll around so that I'm facing away from him, but his gentle breathing is audible in the silent room. He stays until I fall asleep, the painful world disappearing in a haze of pain and memory.